


Midnight Conversation #3

by Thistlerose



Series: Midnight Conversations [14]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Fights, Gen, Homophobia, M/M, Male Friendship, Marauders' Era, POV Outsider
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-13
Updated: 2013-04-13
Packaged: 2017-12-08 09:38:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/759886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thistlerose/pseuds/Thistlerose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Prank, Peter Pettigrew finds himself in a precarious position; does he stand by his friend, or play it safe?  Written in 2003.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Midnight Conversation #3

**March, 1977**

In his nightmares they left him alone in the Shrieking Shack. Not intentionally, of course. There was never anything malicious in what they did. It was not like what they had done to Snape. They simply forgot him and for some reason, try as he might, he never could find the way out, and when he called to them they never heard. He tried again and again, but all that answered him was the low hissing breath of the thing with which they had left him.

He made himself as small as possible, but it found him by the beating of his heart, and leaped. 

He always woke before it caught him, so he never saw its face. 

Peter Pettigrew woke with a gasp, his face pushed against his pillow, his legs tangled in his bedding. For a few moments, he simply lay prone. It was only a dream, he told himself. Only a dream. He was not about to be eaten by a werewolf -- if the thing in his dream _was_ a werewolf. He was in his bed in Gryffindor Tower, and his three best friends were asleep nearby.

The last part was not true, he realized as he came fully awake. Raising himself on his elbows, Peter listened, and discerned three distinct voices.

One was raised in anger -- or maybe, Peter thought as he recognized the voice as Sirius’ -- desperation. The second was muffled, probably by the bathroom door. That would be Remus, then. The third -- James -- was telling the other two, loudly, to shut up or they’d wake Wormtail.

“I’m awake,” Peter informed them grumpily.

“Bollocks,” James muttered and -- from the sound of it -- flung himself back against his pillows.

“Moony, come out already,” Sirius cajoled to the closed bathroom door.

“There’s a loo downstairs,” Peter groaned, and realized, to his annoyance, that he had to use it, too. He kicked back his duvet and rolled   
out of bed.

“Moony, _please._

Sirius, Peter saw, had all but plastered himself to the bathroom door. One hand was pressed imploringly against the dark wood. The other was clenched around his wand.

“I’ll do _Alohomora._ ”

“Don’t you _dare_.”

“I will.”

Peter crept toward them cautiously.

“You need help,” said Sirius.

“I don’t need help,” Remus snapped back. “I don’t need _your_ help.”

Sirius kicked the door.

“Break your toes,” James mumbled from behind his half-closed bed curtains, “and I’m not rushing you to Pomfrey.”

“Sod off,” Sirius snarled, sounding very doglike. “Moony…”

Peter had reached him by then. “Won’t he come out?”

Sirius rounded on him, eyes flashing even in the dimness. “Does it _sound_ like he’s coming out? Honestly. Stupid, stubborn arse. Not _you. Him_.” He turned back to the door. “I’m sorry, Moony,” he wheedled. “I’m so sorry. You _know_ I am. I never meant to hurt you. I wasn’t even thinking about you. _Please_. What the fuck do I have to do? Please let me help…”

Peter was tempted to say something about dogs and begging, but before he had come up with something properly witty James had roused himself and taken Sirius by the shoulders.

“Come on, Pads.”

“What are you doing?”

James was attempting to pull him away from the door. “I think someone needs to go for a walk. Downstairs. C’mon, boy.”

Sirius refused to budge. “I don’t want to.”

“Padfoot.” James dropped his chin onto his best friend’s shoulder and said with more patience than he probably felt, “If we always got what we wanted, Moony would not be a werewolf, Wormtail would not be a virgin, and I would not be awake and fated to spend the rest of the night playing Exploding Snap with you. Let’s go, now. Moony, are you all right in there?”

“I’m _fine_.”

Sirius bowed his head, but still seemed reluctant to leave. He touched the door again with the pads of his fingers, opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again, and sighed. “Geroff, Prongs, I’m coming.” 

Then, as James stepped back, he whirled on Peter, startling the boy, who had become half-convinced that the others had forgotten him. “Help him if he needs it,” Sirius grunted. Then he turned and stalked away, James following.

Peter waited until he heard the door slam and the slap of bare feet against the stone steps. Once those had faded he said, “They’re both gone.”

Silence from the bathroom.

“Umm…” He shifted awkwardly, unsure of what to do. He wasn’t altogether keen on being alone with Remus, but he was far less keen to use the loo downstairs and have to deal with Sirius again. “Prongs is funny, isn’t he?” he said jovially, and immediately felt worse.

Silence for a moment more. Then, tonelessly, “Of the three, I’d rather suffer your plight. Being a werewolf, having been a virgin, and having spent nights trying to bring Sirius to his senses…” He trailed off, then said, “Can you help me, Wormtail?”

Peter had wondered if Remus had been telling Sirius the truth. “Um. All right. Wh--what do you want me to--?”

Tiredly, “Just open the door for me.”

An unpleasant knot uncurled in Peter’s belly. “Oh, sure.” He grabbed the doorknob, but it wouldn’t turn. “It’s locked.”

“I know. Can you just do _Alohomora_? I left my wand out there, and my hands are all slick with that healing cream—“

He felt like an idiot, but at least Remus was not teasing him and making it worse, as James and Sirius would have. “Half a second,” he promised, and went to get his wand. He came back, performed the spell, and stood aside as Remus limped out of the bathroom.

He was naked from the waist up; his white skin glistened in the light that spilled into the bedroom from the bathroom. He looked solid enough, but Peter thought there was something ghostly about him, as though he was not quite _in_ this world. Darkness seemed to sink into his eyes, making their color impossible to determine.

“Thanks,” Remus said wearily. “I don’t need any more help. Really.”

Nevertheless, Peter followed him closely as he stumbled across the room and sank gingerly onto the edge of his own bed. He rested his elbows on his knees and raised his hands. Peter looked away quickly.

“I left my top in the…” Remus began.

“I’ll get it.”

He returned a minute later with the pyjama top, and looked to Remus for further instructions. Remus neither spoke nor moved, so Peter folded the top and placed it on the bed beside him.

“I’ll just… If you want it, you can…”

“Thanks,” Remus said again. The word came out like a sigh.

Peter swallowed hard, then asked the question that had been burning inside him for the past week. “Are you going to forgive him?”

“Yes,” Remus replied at once, bitterly. “I don’t want to, though.” He was studying his hands, and Peter found his gaze drawn to them as well.

At least they looked like hands, Peter thought, and felt his stomach twist painfully at the memory of what they _had_ looked like a week ago. When his nightmares were not filled with hissing monsters, they were filled with bloody, pulpy masses like the ones Sirius had gathered to his chest and whispered desperate spells over, that dawn in the Shrieking Shack. Unable to get at Snape, the werewolf had turned his terrible jaws and teeth upon himself, nearly chewing his own paws off before Sirius in his dog form had stopped him.

Crunched bones mended. Rent skin and spilled blooded could be replaced. The memory of physical pain lingered, but the pain of betrayal, Peter thought, would sear forever.

He knew he should be urging Remus to forget Sirius Black, to forget James Potter and all they had been. He should urge Remus to leave Gryffindor, or at least find somewhere else to sleep, as cowardly as that would have appeared. Sirius was sorry, but he would not change, and James would never abandon Sirius, not after what had happened this past Christmas. Sirius had run away from home, and James and his family had taken him in. They were brothers.

But Sirius and Remus had been lovers. That complicated things immeasurably.

Peter had known, probably before any of the others, that Remus was gay; he had seen him and Richard Cunningham share a discreet kiss outside the prefects’ bathroom once during their fifth year. Sirius bursting out of the closet last September had been a surprise, though it had startled James far more than it had startled Peter. James would never admit it, Peter was sure, but he had taken Sirius’ revelation as a betrayal, and he had been jealous of Sirius’ sudden intense interest in Remus. Peter, on the other hand, had always known that the one predictable thing about Sirius was his unpredictability. The fact that he had spent the last two years shagging nearly every pretty girl at Hogwarts by no means meant he was straight. Any other boy, yes. But not Sirius Black.

Peter was not entirely comfortable living with two gay boys, though he knew he had nothing to worry about from either of them. Well, he had no fear of either of them ogling him as he walked past, or ordering him to bend over and pick things up for them, anyway. (How James felt about changing in front of Sirius in the Quidditch locker room – before Sirius had been kicked off the team -- he did not know, and did not ask about.) He had always been more worried about what would happen when they finally combusted. Because he had known they would.

That Sirius and Remus had managed to be Sorted into the same house (a Black and a werewolf in Gryffindor!) in the same year, had become friends, and developed this attraction to each other… No, Peter thought. It broke every law of probability. It was just too _much_. Lives were not supposed to be that complicated. Or at the very least, people whose lives were that complicated should not become so entangled with people whose lives were just as complicated. Of course it had ended badly. Peter could have told them that it would, had either of them bothered to ask him. He supposed they were all very lucky that it had not ended in death. It nearly had.

The werewolf might have bitten or mauled either Severus Snape or James, or both of them. Remus might have died from his self-inflicted wounds. He probably would have, if Peter had not fetched Madam Pomfrey in time.

He wondered if Remus knew that. Probably not. He wondered too if Remus sometimes wished that he _had_ died of his wounds. He never said anything, never gave any unspoken indication that he wished he had no survived.

He just seemed so…adrift.

As Peter watched, Remus shivered. It ran through his body, from his shoulders to his feet, like wind across water.

Peter licked his dry lips, then said haltingly, “Your top. Do you want—?”

Remus shook his head. “Not until this cream sinks in.” He indicated his cupped hands. “It’ll be just a few more minutes. It needs to sink in, all of it, or the skin won’t—“ He shivered again. “S’cold in here, though. Is there a window open?”

“No, it’s just cold. I could do a heating spell.”

Remus shook his head again. “S’okay. I’ll be all right. In a few minutes. What time is it, anyway?”

“I don’t know,” said Peter. “A little after midnight, I reckon. You sure I can’t—”

“I’m sure,” said Remus. “But thank you.” He turned his head and smiled up at Peter, faintly.

To his surprise, Peter found himself smiling back. He knew the situation was serious, but he could not help it. There was something so very pleasant about Remus’s smile. It made Peter feel as though they were sharing a secret.

“You’re welcome,” he said.

Remus’ smile deepened slightly, and some of the color returned to his eyes. They were warm brown, not the indistinct smudges they had appeared a moment ago. “Thank you for everything, I mean. I’m sorry we woke you.”

Peter could not tell Remus about his dream, because how do you tell your friend that you are having nightmares that may be about him? So, he simply shrugged and smiled back helplessly. He wondered if it would be appropriate to tell Remus that he and Sirius were always disturbing his sleep, whether they were fighting or shagging. He wondered if Remus would be hurt or if he would laugh.

It would be good to make Remus laugh, Peter thought. Then they really would be sharing something, and it would not have to include James and Sirius.

But then he thought, _But if I say that to him, it’ll just remind him that he and Sirius were shagging. Not that he’d ever forget, but maybe it would make him sad, reminding him of what he’s lost._

What could he say to Remus that would make him feel better, and not remind him of Sirius? James had been there for Sirius after Sirius ran away from home. 

But Sirius had turned to James. 

Peter was helping Remus, but thus far Remus had not asked for more than an opened door and a forgotten shirt. Did Remus really care whether Peter was there for him or not?

As bad as Peter’s nightmares were, he supposed that Remus’ were worse. What was more, if he sided with Remus, would he be siding against James and Sirius?

Was there anything he could say that would make Remus feel better, and _not_ force Peter to choose sides?

Remus’ father was ill. How ill, Peter did not know, but Remus had been very concerned about him since the summer. Peter had lost his father when he had been four. Roger Pettigrew had fallen from a ladder, broken his neck, and died instantly. Peter did not remember him, but he had learned to love him through photographs and through his mother’s stories, and he knew what it was like to be without a father. If he said that to Remus… Well, it would not cheer the other boy any, but maybe it would help him feel a bit less alone.

He had almost decided to speak, when Remus’ smile fell, and his dark eyes lowered. “I don’t want to forgive him, Wormtail,” he whispered dully.

_You don’t have to_. The words fluttered on Peter’s lips. He held them back. _Not now, not yet._ “But…you’re going to?”

“Yes.”

Peter thought he knew why, but he asked anyway.

Remus did not raise his head. “What else can I do? He’s sorry. He told me why he thinks he did it. I _know_ why he did it. I mean, I know why he’s been so angry and confused lately. It’s not an excuse, but – at least I understand him, a little. I think I do, anyway. It wasn’t malice. Not toward me. Not even toward Snape, really.” He looked at his hands again.

“He hates Snape,” Peter said.

“I know. You can hate someone and not want them dead, though. He wanted violence, but he didn’t want the consequences. He wanted to lash out-- The thing is, it would never have happened if just one or two things had been different. Obviously if Snape hadn’t said whatever he said to set him off. And this past winter—” He sounded far too matter-of-fact. “I just wish I knew why he didn’t write to me when he was hurt. Was he afraid I wouldn’t leave France? I would’ve gone to him. I’d have gone right away. I wouldn’t have been mad. Why didn’t he want me there? And why the hell was he angry with me for _not_ going? I didn’t know! He almost died, Wormtail. Why didn’t he trust me enough to send for me? I would’ve come.”

He could not talk about what had happened in the Shrieking Shack, Peter realized. “You can’t blame yourself,” he said. “That’s stupid.”

“I don’t,” Remus said quickly, and with surprising conviction. “I don’t. It’s his fault. I just wish – I’d known to do things differently.” 

While he waited for Remus to continue, Peter shifted from foot to foot, and shivered. It _was_ cold in the dorm, and the brief flash of warmth that had touched him when Remus smiled had long since seeped away. He wanted Remus to speak again because he needed a distraction from the memory of his dream, which came back to him as the silence grew.

When Remus did speak again, his words were not comforting. “He stayed in the Shack. He knew he’d get caught, but he stayed. Even afterward. Dumbledore had to order him to go, and even then…” He reached for his pyjama top and began to unfold it slowly. “There’s – a lot to forgive. I don’t know if we can ever go back to being what we were. I don’t know if I want us to. It’s just – Wormtail, what else can I do?” he said bleakly. “He reminded me of what I am. I’d – actually been forgetting. I’d actually been starting to think I was like the three of you. Who else am I going to find who’ll…” He sounded helpless, like a lost child.

_You don’t have to forgive him. We could be better friends, maybe, without either of them,_ Peter thought. If they were better friends, maybe he would stop having these dreams. Maybe he would not need to feel so afraid.

He knew, though, that he would never say the words. It wasn’t just because Sirius would hate him if he convinced Remus not to forgive him, although that was a daunting prospect. He could not, by himself, protect Remus the way Sirius could. Despite the promises he had given Dumbledore, Severus Snape would want revenge, and he would have it, sooner or later. Peter was no match for Snape.

Nor was he a match for their society, which would sink its claws into Remus the moment he left Hogwarts. Peter was a realist. He could not, as Sirius and James did, take facts and weave them into something enticing. He could not do it for himself, and he certainly could not do it for a gay werewolf. 

Besides, what was a gay werewolf worth, without his more normal friends? It was a harsh thought, and Peter hated it, but it was one he could not dismiss. If he sided with Remus against James and Sirius, they would be cast out together, and that would help no one. The other students, who already thought him a mindless sycophant, would think he was a _gay_ mindless sycophant. (James Potter, the brilliant Quidditch Chaser, would be above reproach, even if gave up on Lily Evans and turned queer like Sirius. He was practically a cult figure among the younger Gryffindors.)

And that was just Peter as a boy. As a rat, he was just as useless to Remus. A rat could not control a werewolf. A rat would not even be good company for a werewolf. Moony acknowledged Padfoot because he was another canine, and his mate. He acknowledged Prongs because it was impossible _not_ to ignore those antlers. Wormtail was a mote of dust on the edge of Moony’s vision, barely there at all.

He would never say the words, he knew, and it would not matter if he did, for Remus was not really listening to him, and never really did. He had barely glanced at Peter as he had spoken and, as Peter watched now, his gaze went from his own healing hands to Sirius’ empty bed, and back again.

8/31/03

revised 10/17/04


End file.
